Life is only a
span between the Unknown and the Unknowable. Living is made up in all
centuries of just so many emotions. We have never, so far as I know,
invented any new one. It is too bad to throw these things at you on
paper which can't answer back as you would, and right sharply I know.
Nothing going on here except the passing now and then of a long line of
Paris street busses on the way to the front. They are all mobilized and
going as heroically to the front as if they were human, and going to get
smashed up just the same. It does give me a queer sensation to see them
climbing this hill. The little Montmartre-Saint-Pierre bus, that
climbs up the hill to the funicular in front of Sacre-Coeur, came up the
hill bravely. It was built to climb a hill. But the Bastille-Madeleine
and the Ternes-Fille de Calvaine, and Saint-Sulpice-Villette just
groaned and panted and had to have their traction changed every few
steps. I thought they would never get up, but they did.
Another day it was the automobile delivery wagons of the Louvre, the
Bon Marche, the Printemps, Petit-Saint-Thomas, La Belle Jardiniere,
Potin--all the automobiles with which you are so familiar in the
streets of Paris.
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